Fifteen Minutes
by Anticlere
Summary: Not all Stormtroopers live solely for the thrill of battle and the chance to die in the Emperor's name - some like to write on their time off. Excerpts from Corporal Lenz's personal dataslate, scribbled during fifteen minute breaks.
1. The Valkyrie

Fifteen minutes until the Valkyrie drops us off. Mazen told me to sit down and write something; bastard. Thinks he knows me just because we were in the Schola together.

Truth is, though, I *would* like to write something. It's been awfully long since I have – not since leaving that same Schola, actually. Well, being a Stormtrooper doesn't exactly leave a lot of time for scribbling pointless frak I guess, so that's my excuse.

But I got time now, haven't I? Fifteen whole minutes. Problem is, I'm not sure what I want to write.

Guess I can just put down what's going on around me, then. The Valkyrie hold's a little dark, but it's not so bad that I'd have to strain my eyes or anything. I can see the dataslate plain as day. The engines're a bit loud, too, but not distracting. Not to any of us, at least. A civvie would probably call it unholy racket; me, I've gotten used to it over the years.

Stuel's sitting right in front of me, on the other side of the hold. Apparently he's telling Peccel some sort of a story – probably about how Orks killed his parents and burned his village or something. He likes making up stories about how he got into the Schola, apparently thinks it's funny. What really is funny is seeing him alongside Peccel. In the squad, she's the smallest of the lot, shorter than even Ludger. And Stuel? Phwoah. Either he's got Ogryn blood, or they feed them something weird in that agriworld he's from.

I mentioned Ludger. He's sitting right next to Peccel, but it doesn't look like he can hear what Stuel's saying – seems more preoccupied with blankly staring ahead of himself. I doubt he can even see that Hafner's sitting in that chair across the Valkyrie from him, which isn't that big a loss. Bound up in mumbling off his Throne-damned prayers for the twelfth frakking time today, I bet Hafner can't see him either.

Then there's Mohren, between me and Hafner. I wish they stopped seating us beside one another, because the frakker reeks of lho-smoke from a mile off. There he goes lighting up again, even now – some sort of superstition from his home hive, apparently. 'If you light up right before crap hits the fan, it's all gonna turn out alright.' Yeah, right – keep telling yourself that. I'd rather take my chances with rational thought.

Mazen's sitting by himself again, no surprise there. Maybe Mordians just have a funny idea of what Sarges are supposed to act like – or maybe he just can't be bothered to listen to Stuel telling the same damn story again with a different antagonist. I sure as Warp can't be.

And then there's Lenz, sitting in the corner with her dataslate - a.k.a., me. What about me?

Well, there's some hair in my eyes. Bastard strands doesn't ever want to stay in place, I swear on the Golden Throne one day I'll frak this whole 'keeping it short' business and just shave it all off. Frakkers aren't just annoying, I hate their colour too – dark brown just sounds so boring. Wish I had something exciting. I could dye them blue, for instance. Wonder what that's like – having blue hair.

Mazen's giving me that charming Mordian 'Get off your ass, Corporal, time to go' look from his corner. Bugger. Guess my fifteen minutes are up.

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**Author's Note: 'Write anything in 15 minutes' exercise done in the name of combating writer's block, this is what happened. **


	2. A Stormtrooper's Hands

Mohren's got pretty weird hands. I mean, I don't normally think about them all day long, but now that I've got fifteen minutes to do nothing but that – they are a bit strange.

His fingers're a bit too long, for one thing. The nails are yellowed, too (bit like his teeth I guess), and there's a small burn mark on his right thumb – not so large you'd notice right away, but you pick up on those things after spending as much time around the frakker as I've been forced to. Knowing him, it's probably from pulling on a lhostick while holding it too close to the end between his fingers.

And speaking of burn marks, there's a wide one running across his left palm. Wonder how he got that. From the shape, you'd guess he grabbed on to a hot pipe or something of the sort. Well, he's not the brightest luminator in the hallway, so I wouldn't put doing that past him. And anyway, we're Stormtroopers. Stupid things are part of the job.

They're cleaning his hotshot right now. Mohren's hands, I mean. Not that big a surprise – it's break time, and cleaning his gun is his second favourite thing to do after smoking (he's already done that, and Throne only knows when we're getting anything in the way of 'luxury goods', i.e. drink and smokes, so I guess he's rationing).

You could say there's a certain calming rhythm to his movements. Push the cleaning rod into the barrel, then out again. In, out. In, out. Bit like the pendulum of one of those old clocks that dad used to keep on the wall back home – if that had reeked of three days' worth of sweat and lho-smoke.

He's putting the rod down. Will he go for the rag next..? Yes, he's going for the rag. Polishing the barrel. Not that it'll do his gun much good, what with how chafed and scratched the thing is. With just a shred of cloth and some spit in the way of cleaning supplies, the Emperor probably couldn't polish well enough to cover all that up.

Speaking of Him on Earth, I wonder how they're all doing, all the way out there on Holy Terra. Never had the chance to go myself – don't suppose I ever will, actually. They say it's like a beehive there (then again, 'they' are the beekeepers back in the backwater dirtball I call my homeworld, and what the frak do they know about the bloody Cradle of Mankind?); crowded like you wouldn't believe - until you get to the Palace, that is, and the plebs are told to piss off and take their non-blessed arses somewhere else.

I'll probably never get the chance to do it, but I think I'd like to go there. See that beehive for myself. When I was a kid, I used to think it was impossible for it to be as crowded as they said it was, and that the adults were just pulling my leg. Obviously, this was way before my first hive-world deployment.

Wonder what Mohren would say to catching a spaceship to Holy Terra once he's done cleaning his hotshot. Think I'll ask. Random, nonsensical questions seem to piss him off, and it's not like I've got anything better to do.

Gave me a weird look. You could actually see him struggle not to ask if all the factory fumes on this blasted forge-world haven't gone to my head. In the end, told me he'd be game for it, "So long as you're the one who guns the Commissar down when he asks what the frak we think we're doing." 'Course, then he saw the dataslate in my hand and realized what was up; it's funny how much you can tell about what's going on in his head just from looking into those beady brown eyes of his.

Can't really hear what's he mumbling now, but I bet it's something along the lines of 'I guess it's the Corporal's crazy time again.' If the murderous looks he's shooting at my little diary (if you can call this that) are any indication, I should keep it close to me unless I want it to be 'accidentally' thrown into the sewers when I'm not looking.

There go the air alert klaxons; guess the greenskins figured out how to get those scrap-heaps they call bombers up into the air after all. Scribble time's up.

* * *

**Author's Note: Written to a five-step exercise about a person's hands.**


	3. What Must be Done

It had to be done.

Throne Almighty, that line's used a lot, isn't it? But I really do mean it, unlike half those frakkers who use it to wave away whatever mistake (and with that phrase, it's almost *always* a mistake) it was they made. If I hadn't shut the hab door on that trooper, we could all bloody well be dead. The greenskins were right on his tail, there was no way to know if he could've made it inside before they barged in and slaughtered the whole bloody lot of us. Leaving him for dead was the right call. Maybe he's been hacked to pieces, but the rest of us have a thick slab of forgeworld metal to hide behind for it.

That's what I keep telling myself, anyhow. Don't think the Guardies came to the same conclusion, what with the glares they're giving me when they think I'm not looking. I'll be damned if there won't be another sob story about 'those frakking glory boys' going around the latrines when (if) they get back to their regiment.

But you know what? Frak 'em. The Warp do they know about being a Stormtrooper anyway? If they wanna think we're the bad guys just because we do what's gotta be done and get better kit for it, let them. And if they get uppity about it - well, I'm never averse to knocking their faces in with the butts of their lasguns to get them to back off.

Doesn't look like that'll be necessary for now, thankfully. Even the grunts're smart enough to know you don't start something when you're stuck in a hab-block with a whole damn Waaagh! between you and your lines.

Ludger gave me a pat on the back when I shut the door. Can't really say I was expecting that. He's not usually the one who knows what you need to say or do and when in these situations. For a Voidborn, he's not half bad. Used to be he weirded me out a bit, but by now, I barely even notice the violet eyes anymore. That's a good thing – I wouldn't really be much use to Mazen as an ASL if I couldn't adapt and make calls like the one with the door.

Wish he was here now, really - to give those Guardies a good old Mordian asskicking if nothing else. Ten Thrones say they aren't whispering anything nice about me, huddled around that little fire in their corner of the room. At least, it sure as Warp isn't the smell that's making them keep to themselves – compared to those guys, me, Stuel and Ludger might as well smell of lavenders, like the garden back home. Don't even want to know what it is they had to wade through to get to these bloody hab-blocks. Knowing this damn forgeworld, it was probably borderline toxic.

Think I can hear shooting outside. Difficult to say, what with how thick the walls in this place are, but there's something off about the Orks' warbling all of a sudden if nothing else. Stuel's giving me an odd look; I think he can hear it too.

Yep, definitely las-shot. Guardies're hearing it too, now. They've got the nerve to shoot befuddled looks at us, Warp take them. Just like the grunts to grumble behind our backs and then expect us to get them outta the mess alive...

Better get the hotshot ready. If those really are our guys out there, the last thing I'd want would be to miss the chance for some payback. The bloody greenies have another thing coming if they think they can just hole me up with some kiddie-troops with no consequences.

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**Author's Note: Written to the 'start a story with 'It had to be done'' prompt.**


End file.
